


Burning Ground

by Callisto



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Starsky hadn't shed a tear in another's arms since his mother had wrapped herself around her thirteen-year-old son at his father's funeral. Which was why, when Hutch's collapse came, the intensity of his own response had caught Starsky unawares. Rounding on Gillian's body as the panic hammered in his chest, the enormity of what it would all mean to his besotted partner had, quite simply, tripped his heart. His gathering in of Hutch had been as shielding and instinctive, he supposed, as his mother's had all those years before.</i></p><p>A tag to 'Gillian'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Ground

**Author's Note:**

> "Friends almost certainly couldn't have survived the gaps and troughs that afflicted both men, but any two people bound by love are forced to live on burning ground every day of their lives and still keep moving."  
> \--'Roxnna Slade' by Reynolds Price--

On his way to the kitchen, Starsky cast a swift glance over the figure on the sofa, and felt something in his chest tighten at the pale, drawn features. Outside of Bellamy, it may well have been two of the toughest days Starsky had had since wearing a badge. But it was a pretty safe bet that, outside of Forest, today had been hell on earth for his partner.

Hutch had hardly spoken since Starsky had hustled him out of harm's way at the cinema, and coaxed him into the Torino with strict instructions not to move. Not that it had been necessary. Hutch seemed to have had coherent thought and action drained out of him by the day's events. Producing little more than the occasional grunt, he had allowed himself to be pulled out the car, walked up the stairs and deposited on his partner's sofa, with scarcely a flicker of recognition or protest. Shell-shocked, was Starsky's guess.

That Hutch was not speaking right then was fine. He reckoned they both needed a little time and space for some equilibrium to return. Starsky hadn't shed a tear in another's arms since his mother had wrapped herself around her thirteen-year-old son at his father's funeral. Which was why, when Hutch's collapse came, the intensity of his own response had caught Starsky unawares. Rounding on Gillian's body as the panic hammered in his chest, the enormity of what it would all mean to his besotted partner had, quite simply, tripped his heart. His gathering in of Hutch had been as shielding and instinctive, he supposed, as his mother's had all those years before.

Still a little raw, Starsky was therefore content to potter in the kitchen, and leave his partner to his silent self on the couch.

"Up for a Huggy java special?" Starsky called over his shoulder. He kept his tone light, though not frivolous. Too much pain had happened that day for frivolous.

Not expecting an answer, Starsky reached into a cupboard and pulled out an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. Both partners drank beer over liquor, but if ever a situation called for it, Starsky figured, then this was it. Adding a generous spike to both mugs, he made his way back to the living area. Putting his own coffee down, he stuck the other in front of his partner.

"Hutch."

No response. He tapped the mug.

"Hutch. Coffee."

He softened his tone, "C'mon, partner, wrap your mitts round this."

Hutch finally focused on the mug and slowly closed cold fingers of both hands around it. Only letting go when he was quite sure Hutch had a firm grip, Starsky took his and sat down on the sofa. Close enough for the coffee to be a companionable one, but far enough for Hutch to still keep his own counsel.

Three or four sips passed, when Starsky felt Hutch frown into the mug.

"Coffee okay?"

"Oh, that's what the whisky's flavoured with."

Starsky looked over and the ghost of a smile crossed his partner's face. He felt his own lips curve, and as the moment held, more than a few unravelled nerves began to knit themselves together. There was a long way to go, but it was a start.

Content to sit, sip and wait out the thaw, Starsky was unsurprised when a few quiet moments later, Hutch stared at the now empty mug in his hands and tentatively began.

"Starsk, do you think...? I mean, how...?"

Starsky turned. He took in the bewildered air, the eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and pain, and knew this would all have to wait. Extracting the mug from Hutch's nerveless grip, he put it down and took hold of a wrist. Hutch blinked up.

"We'll talk, partner, but not now." He made to pull Hutch to his feet. "You look worse'n what we scraped off the fender last week."

Hutch allowed himself to be tugged upright. Starsky then let go of his wrist.

"It'll be okay, Hutch." He gentled his voice as much as he dared. The last thing either of them needed right then was any kind of emotional rematch. Hutch nodded once and wearily stepped away. Then, as if suddenly understanding where he was, he paused.

"Uh..."

"Keep goin'. You know where everything is."

"But...the couch--"

"--is where I'll be," finished Starsky. He prodded the nearest shoulder. "Move, 'fore I change my mind and kick you out altogether."

"Promises, promises," muttered Hutch. He hesitated at the bedroom door and glanced back.

"Starsk--"

He was waved off. "I know, and you're welcome."

They both paused and Starsky softened his tone again. He had to get Hutch moving before the man ran out of heartbeats right there in the doorway.

"It'll be okay, Hutch."

Hutch nodded. Hutch was nodding a lot, probably figuring that if he heard that enough and nodded enough, perhaps it would turn out to be true.

He sighed and headed into the bedroom.

________________________________________

As Starsky drifted up, he became aware that he was not alone. A tall, silent figure, vaguely outlined by the street light, was standing at the window to his right. He listened to the steady, even breaths and wondered if he should announce his presence.

The silhouette's shoulders slumped as Hutch's forehead slowly came to rest on the glass, his breath instantly misting it.

Decision made.

"Hey, Blondie, wanna quit with the Greta Garbo all over my window?"

Hutch jumped back, startled. "Wake a guy up, why don't you?"

"What? You're awake." He struggled to sit up, rolled his neck a little and reached behind him for the lamp. "Time izzit, anyway?"

Hutch was looking out the window again. "Bout six." He didn't turn round.

Starsky was relieved. Hutch now had a solid chunk of downtime behind him. In the faint glow of light, his face was still pale but it had lost that awful pinched look, and at some point Hutch had showered and changed. Standing there in a pair of sweats and his own dark-blue T shirt, it could almost be the remnants of any drunken sleepover.

"She really love me, Starsk?"

Almost.

Starsky regarded the figure at the window, breath still misting the glass slightly. The tone was neutral, but trying a little hard for it, and Starsky realized that rest or no rest, he was going to have to tread carefully.

"You know she did, Hutch," was the gentle, but firm reply.

"Yeah?" Hutch turned, a little vehemence creeping in. "How are you so sure?"

Because she told me was bitten off before his mouth even opened. That whole scene was a confession for another time and place. In the car on the way home the previous day, Starsky had made the quiet decision not to tell. One look at the shattered man next to him had sealed it. He had determined that he would manage his partner's pain threshold as much as he could -- one lousy dose at a time.

With that in mind, Starsky swung his legs off the sofa and padded over to where Hutch stood in the half-light, gazing at the street below. Shoulders barely touching, they watched, mesmerized, as a cat curled itself back and forth around a street light.

"How come I didn't see it?" Hutch's voice had dropped to a whisper. He looked left, "How come, Starsk?" His eyes skittered back to the cat, "I mean, you and I work with..." he couldn't bring himself to say the word. "...every day of the week, and I didn't have a goddamn clue." He shook his head and Starsky reckoned there was a year's worth of self-loathing in the snort that followed. "Boy, I am one lousy judge of character."

Starsky stepped in a little, his shoulder now making contact with his partner's.

"What d'you think I saw?" He turned his head to the right as Hutch's forehead leant on the glass again. "Or Nancy? Or anyone?"

He spoke slowly and clearly. "Just a girl, with a funny name, in love with a guy."

He saw a muscle tighten in the face against the glass. He pressed on. "’S all anyone saw, Hutch." He paused, letting his words sink in.

"And you and I both know that is everything in this world, partner." He swallowed, watching the struggle for composure in the face inches from his.

Enough for now.

He bumped his shoulder into his partner's, "and the rest don't amount to a hill'a beans, schweetheart."

It was the dreadful Bogey that did it. A wan half-smile turned itself towards the perpetrator, as the emotion unwound and Hutch began to straighten.

Starsky saw his chance. "Now," he began, locking his right hand round his partner's upper arm. "How 'bout we leave this cat to do its thing, and you and I relocate to the kitchen where I will fill us with eggs and bacon?" He pulled.

Hutch doubted he could eat, but he turned from the window and patted Starsky's upper back, in their familiar gesture of comfort and reassurance. Hutch's hand lingered as their eyes met.

"Eggs sound good, Starsk, thank-you."

Knowing he was being thanked for more than the offer of breakfast, Starsky let the smile reach all the way out between them.

"Think nothin' of it, Blondie, because dinner will most certainly be on you."

________________________________________

Epilogue

"I don't get it."

Starsky's forkful of scrambled eggs halted in midair, inches from his mouth.

Starsky's relief at such an idle question was obvious. Stumbling slightly, Starsky clattered his fork onto his plate "Well, uh...y'know, she was the one who did the whole..." he threw his hands dramatically out in front of him, "'I Vant Zu Bee Aloone!' thing."

Hutch made a choking noise.

"Starsk, she was a Swedish actress, not a Romanian vampire."

"Ah, potayto, potahto" replied Starsky. He gestured across the table to his partner's empty plate and smiled. "Want some more?"

Hutch blinked down. Now when had that happened?

With a start he realized that for two whole minutes, he had forgotten her and eaten. The plate under him blurred as the ache returned with a thump, and blew itself anew through the hole in his heart.

Then there were fingers. A warm strong grip squeezed right into his shoulder, anchoring him. He closed his eyes and held on. His heart gradually slowed its panicky beat, and he opened his eyes, unsure if seconds or minutes had passed. The fingers moved briefly to the back of his neck, and then were gone.

Something scraped on the table. He looked down. Hot-buttered toast (rye-bread, his favorite) steamed enticingly next to a glass of what really did look like carrot juice.

Such a mundane, simple thing should not have had the effect that it did, but it couldn't be helped. Hutch felt an unbidden smile stretch its way through all the crap and pain of the last forty-eight hours.

Who knew that toast and carrot juice could fill in a heart?

******


End file.
